Link Me

Happily married mommy of 1 with no plans for any additions. Loving every crazy, scary, fun, hilarious, frustrating, amazing minute of parenthood and life in general. I live in Portland, OR and have a great job that I would very much like to keep.

Blogs I Like SO Much – I Put Their Widgets On My Page!

Top Posts

***pull up a drink…you'll need it***

Giles

A couple of days ago, I noticed our wee dog, Giles (prounounced JIles – like on BuffyTVS and yes, named after her watcher, but I digress) was scratching his tummy a lot. I didn’t think too much of it because he’s little and silly and a dog. Yesterday, I noticed him doing it again and I looked at his tummy. It was all red and irritated and I thought, “well, he just needs a bath – he’s gotten into something itchy.” (sooooo naive...)

So DH and Pineapple decided to give him a bath. They hauled him into the tub…and I went in the living room to take advantage of the (relative) quiet and watch Vampire Diaries because I’m fully into television programming that helps me to expand my knowledge base and grow as a person. So, I’m enjoying the historical perspective that the examination of teenage vampire angst provides and I hear “RACHAEL!!!!!” from the bathroom. I leapt up (almost like a vampire – I was THAT fast) and ran to the bathroom.

DH had a panicked look…and said that dreaded word…..FLEAS.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I screamed.

YES! he shouted.

DOGGIE!!!! contributed Pineapple…followed by giggles because the doggie was all wet.

I ran downstairs to pilfer through our pet supplies only to find we had NO flea shampoo. That’s when I thought about the stupid cat. I looked over toward her area in the garage and thought…if GILES has them then that stupid annoying EYRIE cat must have them, too. In fact, Giles probably GOT them from the stupid cat. So, I gathered up all of her bedding and comfies and I tossed them, along with the dog bed, into the wash with about a bottle and a half of bleach and hit the HOT button. I then hollered up to DH explaining that I was on a flea-busting product-purchasing mission and would be back pronto, ran to the car and sped out of the driveway.

TWO stores later, I had $45 worth of crap for cleaning fleas off of animals. I got home to find DH and Pineapple eating dinner and a soggy dog trapped in the bathtub. DH finished up and then went back in to tackle the dog and I went on a stupid cat hunting expedition outside. Pineapple and I called and called for that cat. Usually, you can’t get rid of her – she meows outside of the door and then from the inside once she’s ready to get back out (which is approximately 30 seconds after she’s been let in) and so on, and so forth. We finally tracked her down just as Giles was finishing up and I unceremoniously dumped her into the bathroom. Pineapple was squealing at the dog as he ran around the room shaking and rubbing and rolling when the cat started screeching. The cat meowed LOUDLY and in a PANICKED tone while Pineapple whimpered and said “OH NOOOO – meow meow!!!” and I giggled. And laughed. And had evil thoughts about the cat getting exactly what she deserved….and I was just thinking to myself “I am a terrible person” when I heard laughter coming from the bathroom. Seems that DH thought the cat was getting a bit of what she deserved, as well.

Why is that you ask? Because fleas = the devil. And the cat being evil annoying as hell is most likely the cause of those fleas being an issue at all in our home.

With that being said…anybody want a cat? She’s black and fluffy. Has no manners. Yowls at any closed door. Once inside the home finds the cleanest, whitest, most inappropriate surface to lounge on (most often, Pineapple’s bed – I do a LOT of sheet washing). She sheds like a fiend and when she’s not shedding, barfs hairballs all over the place; despite the fact that we buy her that expensive no hairball food. In other words…she’s a GEM.

After getting my “sort of” ticket, we continued on our way to John Day.

About an hour and a half later, we were forced to stop because the Pineapple was awake and letting us know that starving an infant is still a crime in most states. So given that I get SUPER carsick (hence the title), DH hopped in the back seat to feed her and I jumped out to walk the dog (Giles – he’s a shitzu-pomeranian…aka a shiteranian…or a shitpom – you pick). Giles was struggling a wee bit over going “potty #2,” prompting a dialog between DH and I wherein we discussed the nutritional value of hard dog food and whether or not he’s getting enough water. I then proceeded to tease DH, telling him that something seemed to be “stuck” and that he would need to come and take care of it for Giles. It is a testament to our relationship that DH did not assume I was joking and rather moaned and groaned that he didn’t want to do that…again. (Sorry – need a break for just a second…can’t type while I’m clutching my sides and laughing.)

As I hopped back into the car, I assured DH that all was well aside from the fact that he’d married a terrible woman who picks on him too often and we all moseyed down the road.

A bit later, DH decided he needed to go potty (just #1 though) so we found a quaint little port-a-potty set up right next to the river and stopped there. Pineapple was napping peacefully so I stayed in the car gazing out at the rushing water and enjoying the scenery while DH jumped out to visit the restroom. He returned moments later and when he got in the car, I almost threw up. He smelled like the interior of the port-a-potty…not the inside, as in the shell, I mean the big blue hole. He smelled so bad I made him check his shoes. His CLOTHES smelled like it. The odor was clinging to him – just as I would imagine the bog of eternal stench would cling to Ludo fur (if you have no idea what I’m referencing, I suggest you Netflix The Labyrinth…STAT! 80’s David Bowie in tights = yummy).

He was frantic. DH is nothing if not clean (maybe a bit prissy about it even – I swear he takes the longest showers) and it was seriously freaking him out. Apparently, while in the restroom, he’d worn his shirt over his nose – bandit style – to avoid inhaling the foul odor. So my next logical question was, “then why the hell didn’t you just get out of there and pee outside?! You have that option! Why didn’t you take advantage of it instead of opting to pollute the family car with your malodorous visit to the stink pot?!”

DH’s response?…”I didn’t even think about it. I was so worried about not smelling the stinky smell, peeing and getting out of there.” Men.

After the port-a-potty from hell, we continued on and finally made it into John Day – present and accounted for – arriving at his parent’s house to find it vacant. So naturally, we made ourselves at home and started eating their food. We also began the baby-proofing process which basically consists of plopping Pineapple on the floor and letting her make her way around the room to see what she attempts to either A) put in her mouth, B) climb on, or C) insert something (body part/item found on floor) into. About an hour and a half later, we’d re-vacuumed their floors and put chairs and other objects in front of the wall sockets.

Pineapple was happily eating her snack when grandma came through the door with bags and bags of groceries…which, you may not believe, made me VERY upset. You see, visiting the grocery store in John Day is always one of the highlights of my trip…but that is another post.

This morning, as my husband and I were lying in bed, playing with our little Pineapple and preparing for our day, the dog ran in and joined us. Leaping up on the bed, our little Shitzu-pom mix tenderly dropped his ball in front of my husband and tapped it with his foot to make the squeaky noise…thus indicating that it was time to play.

This is when we came to a sad but true realization. At this point in time, the dog is smarter than the baby. On command, the dog will sit, speak, fetch his toys, run outside to use the bathroom and balance (which is scarily close to standing and walking). Contrarily, Pinapple has not fully mastered sitting without falling (much less standing or “balancing”), balks at her own toys in favor of those belonging to the dog, and not only is she not potty trained in the least, she REVELS in smooshing around in her own nasty caca pants.

Granted, the dog has a few years on our 8 month-old baby and inevitably, she will bypass him in the intellect department over the coming months and years but for the time being, the intelligence score in our house looks something like this:
Dog 1, Pineapple 0

And to make matters worse, we’re pretty sure her first word will be “puppy”…*sigh*